


Cruel

by Curt_Kenobi



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Arthur has issues of a lesser sort, Betrayal, Curt has issues, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, M/M with one F/M chapter, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drug Use, glitter and tears for everyone, sibling incest (briefly), written forever ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curt_Kenobi/pseuds/Curt_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems everyone he has ever met has a cruel streak. It seems that life just never goes his way. As Curt contemplates, he remembers....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro: Cruel Demon

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this way back in 2006, when I first got into fanfic. It's my baby, and always will be. My RL buddy Billy a Leannan served as a kinda/sorta beta.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we begin at the end, in present day...

 

\------j-u-s-t---s-o-m-e---u-g-l-y---m-e-m-o-r-i-e-s------

Brian Slade had a cruel streak. Curt Wild could be fierce himself, but for that, for all his eccentricities and antics, for his personality defects -- for all that, Curt did not have a  **cruel**  streak. His brother, for all his tender touches, had also had a cruel streak. It had shown through more and more as time had passed, for that was how cruel streaks worked. Straight cruel nature was different. That was all present from the get-go. His father had been like that. But cruel streaks were subtle, and when they showed, it hurt more. Brian was no different. But Curt believed -- no, he knew that Brian's was another trait that had solidified the relationship.  
  
Self-destructive, sadomasochistic, mentally disturbed -- Curt had been given a shitload of labels for over half of his life. They had actually started when he was five, but the labels had gotten more scientific, precise, cold after the shock treatment.  
  
Curt looked into the mirror above the sink he was leaning heavily against. The image that looked back at him looked like shit -- skin pale and sallow in complexion, sweating, grey-coloured eyes dull, dodgy. He was jonesin' for a fix so very badly... He savoured the ache. Not only that physical pain, but there was an emotional ache gnawing at him as well. It hurt far worse and would be a helluva lot harder to get over, and never would be erased. But the emotional ache was not from the junk craving.  
  
Yes, Brian Slade was a cruel bastard.  
  
Cruel for leaving him alone here. Alone with his fucked-up thoughts.  
  
Alone with this aching need for him, for Brian.  
  
Alone with his memories.  
  
Damn that boy Arthur for bringing it all back.  
  
"Fuck you, Brian Slade!  _Fuck you_ , Maxwell Demon! Tommy fuckin' Stone!  _Fuck it all!_ "  
  
The mirror shattered to the yellow-tiled floor in a rain of sparkling shards as he shoved an angry fist through it. Blood dripped down with the glittering pieces as well.  _Death of glitter_ , he thought absurdly. He swallowed the tears and sobs that were so very close to surfacing. He thought he had had it under control. He thought he had moved on.  _Deluded bastard -- you never have. Never will._ He sat down amid the broken pieces he had caused. It seemed a lot like his life had ended up...

* * *

 

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Gimme Danger" by Ewan McGregor and the Wylde Ratttz)_


	2. Chapter One: A Brother's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...And we go all the way back to the beginning.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains the non/dubcon incest, in fair detail. Skippy-skippy if it's triggery, otherwise, it gives background to Curt within this tale.

 

_\--------c-r-y---a-t---n-i-g-h-t---/---n-o--o-n-e---i-n---s-i-g-h-t--------_

Arik had always been  _too_  attentive to Curt. When he was little, Curt just thought that Arik was being a good big brother. Sure, they had their brotherly fights -- there's an unwritten law that all siblings will fight. But other than that, Curt had admired Arik. Idolised him.

Curt had always been problematic; Curt Anthony Wild was the unwanted son. His father had never wanted his mother to have a second child, yet here was Curt, and Katya Wild loved her baby. So Nick Wild endured it. Arik was always the Golden Child, though -- all the awards and pictures and such sporting the name "Arik Gregory Wild" were proudly displayed; there wasn't even a finger-painted picture done by Curt hung up on the refrigerator. Curt was always in the background -- he was nonexistent to his father. And that was the reason he acted out so. He craved acknowledgment for  _something_. And with bad behaviour, he received it -- in the form of beatings. But Nick Wild was forced to act like he knew he had a second son, and if punishment was the only acknowledgment his father would give him, Curt would savour it. And Nick Wild would relish the fact that his hatred had an outlet, and luck of luck, that outlet was the cause.

Curt would sit, knees drawn up to his chest, head down, arms tight round his legs, upon his bed -- which was nothing more than a cot -- softly crying. This was his ritual for three years -- from age five to age eight. All those years, Arik had stood at his door, just peeking in, watching Curt. When Curt finally fell asleep, Arik would walk in, ruffle his brother's choppily-cut dark hair, then he'd walk out, going to his room, shutting and locking his door behind him.

One night, when he was nine, Curt had gotten a fairly brutal beating (he had lit a trashcan of papers on fire at school). He sat upon his bed, back and ass still smarting the worst from the blows. He wasn't exactly mad, nor was he glad. Frustrated -- that "why do I keep at this if I know the result?" kind of feeling.

"Curt?"

He looked to the door. As always, there was Arik. For the last year or so, Arik had taken to holding him comfortingly after a beating. More recently, kissing the welts. Curt blinked at him, slowly. Arik walked in, shutting the door behind him as always ("If Dad knew I was being nice to you, he'd freak out, man.") and then sat down upon the bed beside his little brother. Arik was much taller than Curt, of course; he was also four years older. But Curt took comfort in his brother's imposing figure. Arik wrapped his arm loosely about Curt.

"Hiya, Arik."

"Was bad tonight, man. You okay?" He tightened his arm about Curt, who winced, inhaling a sharp breath through his teeth.

"I'm fine," he grated.

Arik smiled at him. "You're a lousy liar, little bro." He grabbed the hem of the back of Curt's undershirt, which was ripped here and there, red-edged about those.

"OK," Curt sighed, though Arik had already started to lift his shirt. Curt raised his arms to aid in the removal of it. The cool air didn't feel too bad; it was much better than the pressing, irritating fabric.

"Damn, Curt; he roughed you up pretty badly this time, bro. Whaddid he do, clean the living room with ya? Check these bruises, and the cuts, man -- they're everywhere."

"It hurts a bit."

Arik kissed a cut upon Curt's shoulder. "Lousy liar," Arik reminded as Curt responded with a wince and a shiver.

"Anywhere else, or did he manage to keep it to just your upper body, kid?"

"No chance." Curt painfully wriggled out of his pyjama bottoms -- faded, threadbare hand-me-downs from Arik, plaid blue. Arik began his ritual, tender/harsh caress of the wound followed by a soothing kiss. Usually, Curt listened for sounds of their father beating their mother -- Kat often tried to take up for Curt, albeit after the fact. And Nick never reacted nicely. But Arik had Curt's mind preoccupied.

Curt was lying on his stomach while Arik feathered kisses across his back. He'd almost fallen asleep.

Arik kissed the back of his neck. "You're a good kid, Curt, really, man. Beautiful kid," he barely whispered in Curt's ear. His hands edged down Curt's briefs, bit by bit, until they were around his slender ankles. Curt turned over awkwardly, only really managing to get halfway over; his legs were twisted by his underwear. Big, bewildered, dazed blue-grey eyes stared at Arik.

"Wh-what're ya doin', Arik?"

Arik didn't answer. His hot, glazed dark blue eyes roved over Curt. "You love me, lil bro?" he inquired. Curt's eyes softened.

" 'Course I do, Arik. You and Ma are the only people who care about me. You're the only one who's really been there with me..." Arik placed a finger against Curt's lips, shushing him. Then he kissed Curt. It was odd, but it felt nice. On some level, he knew it was wrong. But it didn't feel bad. Not at all. It felt like something he had been missing. It didn't feel bad when Arik's hand moved in complementary motions to his tongue, but lower upon Curt's body.

"Curt..."

Arik's mouth roamed again. It finally replaced his hand. Curt couldn't breathe. Oh, God -- this felt good. A sudden spark of pain from biting teeth made him jerk, but surprisingly, he found he liked that, too.

When Curt thought he would die from the mounting tension, Arik suddenly pushed him back over onto his stomach. Curt put his hands out, to brace himself, elevating his upper body. Arik wrenched Curt's arm back and twisted it behind him. Curt's left arm gave out and he fell face-first into the flattened, dingy pillow. Arik knew what he was doing: Curt's scream was muffled by the pillow as Arik thrust into him.

It hurt. Hurt so bad. But it had a tinge of pleasure with it. And then it was all lost in a sea of bursting sparks, and he passed out.

He didn't know which disturbed him more when he woke the next morning: the blood, the wet, the memory of last night and how he'd been frightened and liked it at the same time, or the cold realisation that his brother had done this.

It must not have unnerved him enough, any of it (which none of it really had to begin with). Arik kept at it, grew bolder, more abusive. He had Curt paranoid after awhile -- When will Arik drop in on me? Will we do something in the shower again? While I try and get dressed? In the woods again? When Ma's taking her afternoon nap and Dad's at work? When I nap? He always wants me to "help" him. When will he again?

But a part of Curt didn't want it to end. He liked how it felt -- and he liked the pain Arik would inflict. Liked that almost more. So it continued, unknown by anyone else, unnoticed. All till Curt was thirteen and his mother caught him upon his knees before his brother in the bathroom.

And then he was shipped off to shock treatment....

 

 

\--------------------------

That memory wasn't painful because his idol, his older brother had taken advantage of him. Had taken away any innocence he had left.

No, that memory was painful because, for all that, he had liked it.

* * *

_(The lyrics in the page break are from "Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh, Yeah!)" by Gary Glitter)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the lyric-break is in italics, it's a flashback.


	3. Chapter Two: Demon in My View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jump-skip to Bri.

 

  
_\--------------t-a-k-e---t-w-o---p-e-o-p-l-e---r-o-m-a-n-t-i-c--------------_

_"You could be my main man."_

How true those words had become. It wasn't just a stunt for the "adoring" public. No, they'd pretty much realised from the start there was a connection -- love or lust, it wasn't quite clear. Maybe a mix of both. But it was most definitely there. Brian had kept Curt in his heart since the first time he had seen him, spazzing about on stage like a nutter, and Curt had fallen for him after they had first met properly, when he had looked into Brian's blue eyes and saw the undeniable wanting in them.  
  
Brian was hard to resist. He was damned beautiful in body, for one. That flawless, effeminate face, those high cheekbones and smooth cheeks. The beautiful, pouty, pink lips. His eyes. Not as intriguing as Curt's constantly-shifting-in-colour eyes, they were engaging. He was beautiful in mind, for two. You knew there was a sharp, if shrewd, mind behind those calculating blues, whereas sometimes Curt's chameleon eyes, despite their emotiveness, could go so vacant as to make one wonder how badly fucked from heroin he still was. Both Brian and Curt had their fair share of demons from their pasts still haunting them, affecting everyday. It made them a fair match for one another...against each other.  
  
Curt acted out, still. Brian tried to be the greatest -- and pretty much achieved it. Curt was...intense, spastic. Brian was analytical, materialistic -- it was all about the image, the fame. Both had a temper to be reckoned with, and a gift with words. Curt could be more physically violent, but Brian had honed his eloquence to a perfected art. His words stung badly. And for all their consuming love -- Curt, it could be said, thought the Sun shone out Brian's ass, and in turn it could be said that Brian believed Curt hung the stars -- there were a good deal of fiery disagreements. Though he was more built, when Brian laid into him, Curt rarely fought back full-force. There were many parallels between Brian and Arik, and just like he was a little boy again, Curt would let Brian more often than not have his way with him.  
  
"What the bloody hell were you thinking, Curt! Were you thinking?"  
  
"Oh, excuse the fuck outta me. I did something to piss God-Maxwell off."  
  
"You belligerent sod. You fucking stripped down --"  
  
"That's never bothered you before."  
  
" --  _on fucking stage during MY concert!_  What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

Curt had reclined back on the sofa. He knocked back a swig of beer. Brian stood before him, hands balled into fists, face red from fuming, eyes murderous and gleaming. Curt reflected how even more striking Brian was pissed off. Or maybe he was beautiful to Curt when he was pissed off and on a coke buzz -- like he was now -- because he was the most volatile then.  
  
Curt shrugged, and smiled slightly as he saw the irritated twinge of Brian's muscles. Curt kind of liked to pluck at that frayed last nerve like an ecstatic beginning violinist.  
  
"Hey," he said to Brian, sitting back up. He took another swig of beer. "Give me a minute to shoot up so we can fight fair."  
  
The slap was vicious -- hard and sudden. If he had been standing, Curt might've very rightly been spun round. As it were, his head was snapped to the left, and he fell to the side.  
  
"Ah!" Curt winced, tentatively putting his hand gingerly to his smarting right cheek. It stung badly from the brutal slap, but not only that, Brian had curved his fingers and raked his nails down Curt's cheek as well. Bringing his hand back before him, Curt saw little droplets of red upon it. "You fucker! You drew blood, you goddamned Demon!"  
  
"And I'll do it again, you junky whore."  
  
Curt got to his feet. "Better than a delusional asshole. Maxwell  _owns_  you, Brian!"

"How the hell would you know, Curt? I'd figure you were too busy shooting junk into what veins you can find and having fits of suddenly stripping to notice  _me_."

" 'Shooting junk into what veins I can find'? What about you, you fuckin' hypocrite? You snort coke like you were breathing goddamned air!"

"At least I haven't had this habit since I was fourteen!"

"I had a fuckin' reason! If you weren't such a pansy to start with, I might say you had one, too. But y'know? -- I don't think you honestly do!" Curt's gravelly voice was breaking.

" _You_  couldn't bloody comprehend if I laid it out for you. It's 'cos I have a bloody  _career!_  I'm the fucking God of Glitter -- I  _am_  Maxwell Demon! I'm a bleeding icon! What? -- you think just 'cos I didn't have an older brother fucking around with me that I don't have a reason to want an escape every now and again? No, Curt. My reason is more valid than yours. Mine is in the here and now, not some over-replayed memory of a perverted older brother and shocks!"

He wanted to kill him. He could feel the barely contained rage boiling like lava before a volcano blows its top. What unnerved him was the lust that burned right along with it. He wanted to throw Brian against a wall and fuck him where he stood.  
  
Curt knew Brian could tell the fiery hot look in his now greenish-blue eyes; he could tell Brian was weighing things in his mind -- his blue eyes got shifty when he was evaluating crap.  
  
Suddenly they came together in a brutal kiss, Curt making sure to nip Brian's lip hard enough to bring blood and elicit a yelp -- payback for the bitchy cat move Bri had pulled a few minutes ago. In response -- besides the yelp -- the hand that was raking back through Curt's long, bleached yellow-blond hair fisted tight within the soft locks and yanked hard. Curt pushed him hard into the wall reflexively, but they didn't break apart for another moment.  
  
Heated gazes were riveted upon each other. The emotions that could be read in either's eyes was a motley combination: lust, anger, hatred, love, confusion, understanding, even a little fear, hurt, comfort. It was a whole array of conflicting emotions -- one would think that the opposite of one emotion would cancel out the other, but somehow, in Brian and Curt, both managed to be present and equal. Bri was laughing.  
  
Out of nowhere, Brian's coveted platform boot connected with Curt's left thigh, on the side. And then Brian made to pounce on him as he sunk to the floor. Curt immediately counteracted/reacted to that by moving with Brian's move and rolling him to the side. Curt then rolled atop of him. God, Brian was so beautiful.  
  
They were fighting again. At one point, Brian had Curt shoved facedown upon the floor. Curt backhanded Bri as he turned over and then shoved Brian back against the wall. He ripped open Brian's shirt (his own was long gone, in shreds upon the floor) and kissed him hard as he undid the buttons of Brian's pants. He shimmied down Brian's lithe body until he was upon his knees.

Brian let the mind-blasting blow-job go on until he was on the edge. Somehow he managed to get his booted foot up to kick Curt back off of him. He jumped on Curt as he was on his hands and knees trying to rise, and Brian pinned him down, hands snaking quickly beneath Curt to undo the laces of his silver leather pants, yanked them down, and mounted him. He took him hard, and Curt reveled in it, as always.

Soon they were both spent -- literally and figuratively -- laying naked in each other's arms amidst the wreck of the living room -- a mess of battered objects and shredded clothes. Curt lay half on top of Brian, an arm and leg thrown protectively, possessively across him. He'd sort of always done that since they started sleeping together.

"Am I like your brother, Curt?" Brian asked, his fingers idly tracing patterns upon the back of Curt's hand that lay upon his chest.

"No, you're not like him," Curt half-lied. There were obvious parallels. But Curt had to wonder if that was of his making or if it was truly Brian.

"Nobody owns me, Curt," Brian said stiffly after a long pause. Was he replaying the entire damned conversation over in his head, or did that just poke at him like a thorn?

"You're blind if you think so. As great as you are, you're a slave to Maxwell Demon, and Jerry and the public own you. Hell, Mandy and I  _should_ own you."

"So if I was just a lowly side-act like you I'd be free?" Brian snapped, pressing a fingernail hard into the back of Curt's hand. His fingers twitched, but he rather liked the small pain. It distracted him from the sting of Brian's words.

"No. If you were like me, a lot of other things would own you," Curt whispered in his smoke-roughened voice. "You own my heart." Those words were almost inaudible. He felt Bri just shrug.

"Bugger it," Brian said, dismissing the events of the last two hours. He stretched, yawning. "I'd really prefer the bed to this bloody floor."

And so they headed back to Brian's room and got in bed. They just lay close, as they had upon the floor, no real trace left of the earlier confrontation save for the bruises, scratches, and now-buried memories.

 

 

\----------------------

All the love Curt had ever known throughout his life was always accompanied by cruelty. Curt had loved Brian Slade dearly -- it was different from his relationship with Arik, but all the same, he was rewarded with a harsh consequence, with guilt and pain. With Arik, it had been the shock treatment. With Brian, it had firstly been the break up, then the faked death, and now...just this horrid pain of emptiness. And it hurt so bad. Hurt too bad....

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "2HB" by Thom Yorke and the Venus in Furs)_


	4. Chapter Three: Friends Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing, in glittery fanfare: Tawny!

  
_\--------g-i-m-m-e---d-a-n-g-e-r---l-i-t-t-l-e---s-t-r-a-n-g-e-r---------_

Tawny Koyel had to be one of the most interesting people Curt had ever had the chance of meeting, befriending, falling for.  
  
That first day of waking up in that cold, sterile room of white would forever be in Curt Wild's mind. He had not long after that been strapped down to the bed by thick leather and metal restraints and something was put in his mouth -- "It's all to keep you from hurting yourself, sweetie," the nurse had told him in that sickly-sweet tone. And then he had been wheeled down the hall to the ECT suite and into a room. His family had been there -- Dad, Ma, Arik, and cousins Lucy, Mark, and Billy, who had been living with them since their own mother had been sent to the loony bin. Arik had been right at the foot of his bed. Right before they had switched on the machine, Arik had winked at him.  
  
To avoid the comments from the neighbours like, "Hey, man. Heard your boy was a fag," Nick Wild drove his son to the crazy house at night. Curt had fallen asleep during the long drive there, so all he remembered was getting into his father's battered four-door, the thick and acrid feel of hate permeating the stale air, and then waking up in a hospital room, shivering and alone.  
  
Scourleigh wasn't top-notch -- the Wilds were from the trash trailer parks of Detroit; they could barely afford to eat each day; they couldn't imagine being able to afford the best, really -- but it did what it was there for. The prescribed treatment to try and "cure" Curt's "illness" was ECT, electroconvulsive treatment -- or just shock treatment in laymen's terms. They said it shouldn't hurt; he sure as hell thought it did. The shocks usually, as the name described, sent him into convulsions and then, after a long while, he'd go unconscious. He'd wake up feeling drained and nervy.  
  
One day, not long after his arrival, Curt sat listlessly in the common room. The TV was on, but he couldn't concentrate or process anything on it. Somebody plunked down on the couch beside him.  
  
"G'day there!" the person said brightly. Reluctantly, Curt turned his head and looked to see who this person was.  
  
The first thing he noticed were the red lips -- ruby red. His eyes widened. Was he hallucinating from the stupid shocks? The morphine sometimes made things go funny, but... Damn, this was worse than he'd imagined in his wildest dreams if he was.  
  
"Shh!" the...boy? Curt was pretty sure it was a boy -- said quickly. "Me sister slipped it in for me -- don't tell!" He pressed a finger to his lips. When he drew it away, Curt saw the colour upon his lips in the centre where his finger had been was smudged and there was a red smear on the finger. Curt relaxed some: he wasn't hallucinating; it was just lipstick.  
  
"The name's Talbert Koyel," the boy introduced himself in his jaunty accent that was rather unfamiliar to Curt's ears. "But I go by Tawny -- on account of me hair, right?"  
  
Curt looked at this Tawny fully for the first time, noting minute details. The face was rather androgynous. The lipstick was a bright red in colour and a stark contrast to his rather fair skin. There were freckles all across his face upon his cheeks and over his nose, a pale brown in colour. Then there was his hair: a wild tangle of long golden-brown hair. Oddly, it intrigued Curt. It looked like it would be soft to the touch despite its intimidating unruliness. Piercing clear grey-hazel eyes looked back at Curt. He didn't really think about it -- Curt just reached out and touched Tawny's hair. Tawny smiled. Curt rubbed the silky strands between his fingers. It was really soft.  
  
"Nice, eh? So," said Tawny, "how long 'ave you been here, mate?"  
  
"Um...a week, about, I think," Curt replied, dropping his hand away.  
  
"You look like you couldn't be more than ten..."  
  
"Curt. My name's Curt Wild. And I'm thirteen."

"Sorry -- you just seem a bitty thing. I'm sixteen, meself." Tawny leaned back, lounging against his side of the sofa. Curt watched his eyes scan up and down, and was reminded of Arik. But Tawny wasn't like Arik, even if they were near in age. First off, Arik was really quiet. Arik was subtle. Tawny wasn't nearly as guarded or shady as Arik had been. Tawny seemed a very upfront kind of guy. A nice change. Curt decided he liked him. It would be nice to have  _someone_  to talk to. And he didn't seem like he was sixteen, but more around Curt's own age.

"What're you in 'ere for Little Curt?"

"Don't call me little." He had been bugged enough in school over his smallish stature. And Tawny didn't seem to have room to talk -- he wasn't that tall himself.

"Fine. Can I call you 'Joey'?"

"Why the hell d'you wanna call me Joey?"

" 'Cos it means a kid kangaroo." Tawny smiled.

"I think you can just call me Curt."

Tawny shrugged. "Fine, then. What're you in for?"

Curt's face shadowed.  _For giving my brother a blow job and getting caught this time._  He shrugged. " 'Cause I'm a fag, I've been told."

"You, too? That's one of the things I'm in for. Lemme see if I can remember the other terms..." Tawny closed one eye and cocked his head to the side, feigning deep thought. "Can't remember exactly; hell, they're all really long and science-y."

"That's all they use around here is big words."

"Too right. But I did know 'em once, and I decided to educate meself while the white coats wasn't lookin'. I did it awhile back, but I believe it came to: I'm a charming, childish, stuck-on-meself kind of bloke with mood swings.

Curt almost gave a little laugh.

"Oh, yeah," Tawny continued. "They've also decided I'm 'borderline psychotic during manic states.' I saw that on my chart the other day -- gotta be quick to catch a glimpse o' those. But yeah. I think it's in reference to how I'm kinda violent during my...happy? -- dunno if you could call 'em that -- states. Or easier: when I'm not feelin' down."

"Wow."

"Yeah, well. I've been a good bloke. Play nice, take me meds -- well, more often than not. I should be out soon." Tawny made a face. "Like next year some time. If that."

"I'm in for a long time." It was a really depressing, daunting prospect, but one he couldn't get out of. "18 months. 72 weeks. 504 days. I did the math on Saturday. That was my first day without the shocks. None today, either. Wednesdays and Saturdays are my free days. I get to sit around here, or in my room. Whoopee."

"Ah. It is sackloads o' fun, ain't it?"

Curt groaned. "You betcha."

"Well, you've only got 496 days left, y'know? It'll drag by and eventually it'll be here."

"Nice philosophy."

"It passes the time."

 

 

\--------------------------

The time did drag by, but like Tawny had said, Curt's exit day eventually came about. He had learned to school his answers to appease the "men in white coats." They didn't really monitor him during his replies, and they seemed to believe his every word. And he was lying through his teeth. The shocks hadn't done a damned thing to "cure" him. He hung around Tawny every day, and every day couldn't surpress the urges he felt. Of course, Tawny subtlely encouraged him. (They'd snuck a few kisses, a few touches, but nothing much.) Even when Tawny had that one crazy episode because he had tongued his Thorazine for that month and a half, Curt still liked him.

Curt had just been trying to talk, ask Tawny a question, and Tawny had wigged out and started kicking him around -- kicking a lot of things around. Curt hadn't felt more alive since before he came in. There was a thrill that he loved -- it reminded him of dodging Arik's attacks. Finally, security had come -- Curt and Tawny were scuffling on the ground. Something in Curt had snapped after Tawny had said, "Leave the hell off me, you fuckin' fairy!" when Curt tried to stop him from punching someone else.

Tawny had Curt pinned to the floor when security had yanked him up.

"What the fuck?! I didn't do anything." Tawny's pretty doe-eyes looked down to Curt, appealing for empathy. "Curt, mate -- help me out. I -- I didn't know what I was doin'. Curt -- Curt, you're me best mate; ya know I wouldn't 'urt ya. C'mon, Curt. Tell them. Tell 'em I didn't mean nothin'." Tawny's eyes were as undeniable as Curt's own.

And Curt had felt sorry for him. "He didn't mean it!" Curt had cried. He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and smeared the blood from his nose with his shirt sleeve. His head and ribs throbbed. "He didn't mean to do it!"

A young orderly had come up beside him. "Let's get you back to your room, Mr Wild."

"Tawny'll be alright, won't he?"

"Mr Koyel isn't really you're concern, now, is he?"

Curt had glared at the orderly.  _Appease the white coats._ About the only rule of survival in the nut house. That and  _keep it secret_. But appeasing the white coats meant you had to appease the underlings as well.

"Guess not."

But Tawny had been good since then, and he was going to be released two weeks after Curt.

"Maybe I'll see you round," Tawny had told him the day before he left.

"Yeah, maybe."

Curt sat quietly in the car on the way home, collecting himself. The memory of Arik winking at him before the first course of voltage through his system was nagging him. He missed the morphine that dulled his senses and mind. He felt too aware, if that was possible. But he wouldn't let it happen again. Arik wouldn't make him do  _anything_. Ever again.

Nick Wild did not say two words to Curt the entire ride home, nor when they got to the trailer. Katya, like any mother, was overly-emotional at her baby's return. Arik was inside on the couch. He looked up as Curt came through the door. Curt shivered, but not because of the winter chill.

"Hiya, Curt. Glad you're back."

"Hi, Arik."

And then his mother was fussing over him again. "What do you want to eat? We've only got pork and beans. Is that alright with you, baby?"

"Y -- yeah, Ma. That -- that's fine. Yeah," Curt replied numbly. He looked back at Arik. His brother, currently engrossed in something on the TV, did not notice. Curt knew he was thinking up something, though. He could just tell.

"Ma -- can I go lie down for a few?"

"Sure, Curt. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

" 'K, Ma." Curt walked past his brother and father and down the back hall to his room, nothing more than a converted hall closet. He had reckoned he had missed it while he was at the crazy house. But as he sat down on his cot, staring rather sightlessly about the small space, fingers tracingone of the many holes in his threadbare blanket, he knew he didn't -- hadn't -- wouldn't. The little room was suffocating him. Funny, since there wasn't much in it past his bed, a small lamp at the foot of it on a two drawer dresser that contained all his clothes, and there used to be some toys, but evidently his father had gotten rid of them all. Or his mother. (All her caring would melt away in a couple of hours and she'd recall what he had done. Her precious baby, gone so wrong.) It wasn't fair, Curt frowned -- getting rid of all his toys. Arik still had toys and stuff.

_He's not been found and convicted of being a fag, dumbass._

That made twisted sense. Still wasn't fair.

Curt tossed and turned on his bed for all of five minutes. Damn, it was too quiet back here. Quietly, he stole down the hall about two steps to Arik's room and lifted the electric guitar he knew his brother hid under his camp bed.

As he played upon it, back in his own room, Curt felt a sudden wild freedom in it. He wanted to tear the entire tin can down and give the family a big "fuck you!"

"What the hell're ya doin'?"

Curt jumped at the voice. Arik had opened the bedroom door and was standing in it, his large frame blocking any exit. He had been sent to tell Curt dinner was ready, but the sight of his little brother with his stolen guitar he thought no-one knew about had taken top priority.

"Here," Curt said, quickly taking the strap from round his neck. Before he held the guitar out to his brother, Curt had the sudden urge to take it by the neck in both hands and bash Arik in with it. He squashed the idea, giving Arik the guitar. Arik smiled at him. He was hit with a confusing mix of emotions. Part of Curt wanted to still beat Arik with the guitar for ever looking at him like that again. The other part was ready and willing to do whatever Arik wanted.

He hated himself.

"Dinner's ready. C'mon," Arik wrapped his arm about his little brother and teased the back of his neck under his dark hair. As they got to the living room, guitar dropped off en route, Arik's hand slipped down to rest on Curt's shoulder and give it a "brotherly" squeeze. And Curt pulled away. He looked at the dinner in the bowl his mother handed him. He felt sick. Curt messed around in it for a few minutes -- even attempted to eat a bite. But then he just put the bowl next to the sink and headed back to his room, hoping fervently that everyone would just leave him alone.

 

 

\------------------------

A couple weeks later, it hadn't gotten worse, but it hadn't gotten any better. Curt tromped through the cold woods, mindful of the wolves that ran about and pretty much apathetic to the fact.

He was caught totally off-guard when something --  _someone_  -- ran straight into him, knocking them both to the ground.

"What the bloody hell'd you do that for?" the other person yelled, jumping to their feet. Curt got to his, stammering, "I'm sorry," and then stopped.

" _Tawny?_  Is that you?"

"What the fuck's it to you?"

"It's me -- Curt."

"Curt? Curt, Curt, Curt, Curt. Hey, I remember you! Little handsome fairy! Curt Wild!"  
_  
Damn, he's in a crazy state._ Curt tried not to let the fairy comment get to him. He wasn't very successful. "I'm not a damned fairy." Tawny shrugged. Curt clenched his teeth, but then he caught sight of Tawny's big grey-hazel doe-eyes in the moonlight and all his anger melted. He sighed.

"So, where are you headin', Tawny?"

"Heading? Well, mate, nowhere. Nope, nowhere. Pa said get out o' his goddamned house -- I said that was bloody fine with me. Tara said don't. Tara's such a sweet sheila." Tawny's voice switched to a high pitch as he mimicked his sister. " 'Don't go, Tawny. He doesn't know mean it. He's just drunk again. Don't go.' " His voice lowered below normal as he mocked his father. He convincingly slurred his words as well. " 'I know bloody well wha' the hell I'm doin'. He's out. Get th' fuck outta my 'ouse, fairy. Don' know whose rat ya are, but ya def'nitely no' mine. Out!' "

Curt thought it sounded like their fathers should be friends. His father had said almost the same exact thing after he had found out about Curt and Arik, while he had tried to beat him to death, of course. Such wonderful memories of family.... Curt watched Tawny pace. The older boy was pacing irregularly -- slower, then faster -- and he spoke very fast. He had currently stopped and seemed to be thinking.

"Tawny --" The thought just struck. " -- are you high?"

"No!" Tawny snapped. He shoved Curt against a tree. "What're ya insinuating, huh?" He slapped him, hard, once. Curt's eyes watered and his cheek stung fiercely. Tawny had him backed hard against the tree, one hand fisted in the front of Curt's shirt, the other in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Nothin', Tawny. I -- I..."

And then suddenly Curt found Tawny's mouth upon his. Tawny kissed him hard, bruisingly. And Curt found himself in a situation he knew quite well. And one he could never really hate. Tawny was in a crazy mood, and was twice as violent as Arik had ever thought to be. But Curt went along with it. At least Tawny had a reason. At least Tawny would be nice again, soon. Curt stumbled home around one in the morning, bruised, scratched, bloody. His mind was in a state -- defeated, disturbed, elated. He got to his room and spazzed out -- throwing things, screaming.

No-one inside cared.

He stayed home the next day...

...only to find himself Arik's toy.

Curt, laying on his bed listlessly afterward, realised that he was trapped in a viscious prison. Life was nothing but a painful circle of recurrent events.

* * *

 

 

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Gimme Danger” by Ewan McGregor and the Wylde Ratttz)_


	5. Chapter Four: Wolf Moon

_\---------t-o-o---s-o-o-n---t-o---r-e-a-l-i-s-e---t-h-e-i-r---f-a-t-e--------_

Not all Curt's encounters with Tawny in the woods were rough sexual experiences. No, on the contrary, quite a few were sombre.

"What's wrong with me, Curt? I just wanna go home. I'm not bad, am I? I mean -- you're like me, right? 'Course your pa didn't kick you outta the bloody house. But -- oh, fuck. I dunno." Tawny had cried his eyes out upon Curt's shoulder. They sat in one of the ditches in the woods, underneath a thick tree that had fallen across it. The night was quiet save for the mournful sound of the winds and the lonely cries of the wolves. Curt's fingers idly twirled in Tawny's unkempt hair. Outdoor living hadn't been kind to it, but it still felt soft.

"I get what ya mean, Tawny. Shh," Curt said. He took a last drag off his current cigarette -- second? or third one of the night -- and stamped it out. He watched the smoke trace lazy spirals against the dark background. "You mean, if others feel like ya, then why're ya punished for it?" Curt's voice had deepened over the last few months. It was effective: deeper, it was adult, solid, concrete, not the reassurances in a child's voice that seemed paper-thin.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it exactly. I mean, I'm not hurtin' anyone. Well, not with the way I feel. But that's how it is, y'kno? There are more who aren't like us, mate."

"Yeah, and therefore they make the right and wrong."

"Too right, mate. Too fuckin' right." Tawny's hand turned Curt's face gently toward him and he kissed him softly. Curt liked it when it was like this, too. Dodging blows was exhilarating, but he had to appreciate the simplicity, the stress-free opportunities that these moments held.

Curt fell into the moment; his eyes drifted close as Tawny deepened the kiss and adjusted his position, fingers moving beneath the hem of Curt's shirt to the button and zipper on the flap of his jeans, which was becoming more and more strained.

Everything felt perfect. That's why it was so bad of a shock when it happened.

Tawny was suddenly ripped away from Curt and thrown backwards.

" _Who the fuck are you?!_ "

Curt looked up to see Arik illuminated by the full moon. His dark eyes glinted evilly with rage, and jealousy. Who dare touch his brother? That was his right. Curt knew that was what was going through Arik's mind and it made his blood boil.  _It's_ not _your right! You're my damned brother!_

Curt scrambled to his feet, buttoning his pants with one hand as he did, to make sure they wouldn't fall off of him. "Leave him the hell alone, Arik! Don't you dare touch him, you fuck!"

"Shut up, Curt!" Arik turned his attention back to Tawny, who was now also on his feet. Tawny eyed this new person warily, from beneath a fall of his golden hair.

"Who the hell are you?" Arik reiterated.

"I'm a friend -- o' Curt's."

"A friend? Curt doesn't have friends. And you're just a friend? You call  _that_  just friends? A friend? My ass!" Arik was incredulous. He whirled around, glaring at Curt. "You're just a little fag whore, aren'tcha?"

That stung Curt to the core. His smart comment died in his throat with the cold-water shock. And something snapped. Not all the way, but so very near that all it would take would be one little nudge. One tiny thing and he would go berserk.

Arik gave him that little push and more.

"Hey, don't talk to 'im that way, ya bastard! You're his brother, aren't ya? Sadistic perv -- fuckin' around with your own little brother -- screwin' him up when he doesn't understand and keepin' at it till he thinks he's bloody insane! You're one to bloody talk!"

Arik hated to be called out. He hated it even more that Tawny had him pinned to a T. And that meant Curt had been squealing to him. But Arik would deal with his little brother later. This loud-mouth had to go. He lunged at Tawny...and that was what made Curt completely snap. Arik had brought Tawny to the ground and had a fist pulled back for a punch when Curt slammed into him.

"I-said-leave-him-the-fuck-alone-you-stupid-asshole-motherfucker! Leave-the-hell-offa-him!" Curt spat all his words out in two breaths. He fought against Arik with the ferocity of a snowstorm; he was all pounding fists and flailing feet. Arik finally caught Curt a good one in the jaw, sending him reeling as Tawny jumped on Arik's back and put him in a headlock. Tawny might've been smaller than Arik, but he was a determined little bastard. Arik was turning purple in the face and had clawed the hell out of Tawny's arm round his neck. Curt was swaying on his feet -- he'd cracked his head hard on a rock on the ground. Though his vision was blurry, he could tell that Arik was in trouble.

"Tawny! Tawny, stop it! He's my brother!"

Tawny shook his head, but he didn't have much more control as Arik flipped Tawny over his shoulder -- Tawny hit the ground hard, his cry of pain as his back slammed into the rocky terrain tearing Curt's heart. The rustling of leaves was heard about Curt, but there wasn't really any wind. Curt was apathetic to it all.

A howl was the only warning before a large grey wolf charged forward, pouncing upon Arik. Curt stood paralyzed, all he could do was watch. Arik had heard it and whirled to face it. As he did, it had jumped up, its front paws hitting Arik full in the chest, knocking him flat on his back, much like Arik often pushed Curt down upon the bed or couch, or against a wall, or most often, to the floor. Then Arik would yank him up to his knees by fisting his hand in Curt's choppily shorn dark hair, deliberately grabbing a short patch (that hurt the most). But the wolf wasn't pulling Arik up by his shaggy dirty blond hair.

He was having at at Arik's throat.

 _Holy crap._  They had always held the warning in the back of their minds, everyone in this tin can trash park:  _Beware of them damned wolves._  Curt had never minded. He had thought of the wolves as protectors. Fricken hell; it was like the wolf knew that -- it acted upon the most immediate danger to Curt:  _Arik._

Arik's screams had Curt trembling continuously, a little mewling noise escaping him. Then there was an awful gurgling over the screams. Curt turned paper-white. The wolf looked up at Curt, his yellow eyes shining. Arik lay twitching beside it.

"Bloody hell, Curt."

Curt jumped at the hoarse whisper. It was just Tawny. His lover put a hand upon his shoulder, leaning heavily against him. The wolf took them both into account.

"Your brother. That fuckhead --"

"He's dead."

That was rather obvious, wasn't it? Tawny looked at Curt. The boy -- well, technically he was a "young man," but to hell with formality and in this moment the term fit -- was in total shock. His pale face was ghost-white, his eyes a deep, stormy grey, pupils large pools of black. A subterranean tremor ran through his scrawny frame, shaking him fairly hard. But most stunningly -- pearly tears, fallen-angelic in their tainted innocence, tracked down his cheeks, glinting in the moonlight.

"Curt?"

"Ar -- he...my bro --"

"Curt, he freakin' abused you, mate. Why're ya cryin'?"

"I -- I lov -- Oh, fuck. Hell. He's dead. He's dead." _I loved him anyway._  Curt was torn. He wanted to jump up and down and do a dance and scream at the top of his lungs in joy; he wanted to fall to his knees and cry until there were no tears left. He'd hated Arik for what he'd done -- he'd loved Arik for being there. Arik had been the only one who had always been there for him. His mother had loved him, till she found him and Arik in the bathroom. Arik might've been an asshole, but he had never cut Curt off. He had always taken what he wanted, but he had always been there for Curt to turn to.

He couldn't go back to the trailer. He knew he'd have to, one more time at least.

"C'mon, Curt. We -- We gotta leave, mate. Before someone shows up."

Curt nodded numbly. He didn't even look back, but he could feel the golden eyes of the wolf upon him.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Bitter's End" by Paul Kimble)_


	6. Chapter Five: Rush

_\-----o-r---b-e---d-r-o-w-n-e-d---i-n---b-l-i-s-s-f-u-l---c-o-n-f-u-s-i-o-n----_

It hadn't taken young Curt Wild and Tawny Koyel long to fall in with the underground crowd. They had run away to the intercity of Detroit that night, leaving Arik mangled upon the ground and the Wild household short two sons and a bit of money lighter. Curt had snuck back into the trailer from the backside door. His parents were in the front, fighting. He cringed as he heard glass shatter and his mother sobbing, but crushed his emotions down -- he had a mission. He grabbed Arik's guitar and then hit every stash of money -- mother, father, brother's, his own -- that he knew. He found just shy of a hundred dollars -- ninety-three dollars and seventeen cents, he and Tawny would later count. And then, guitar slung on his back and money split between their pockets, Curt and Tawny had headed for intercity Detroit.  
  
They were squatters, the group the boys hooked up with, and they lived in an abandoned brownstone on the industrial side of town... And they had an awesome way of life Tawny and Curt were almost immediately consumed by.  
  
It was the first place Curt scored a hit of heroin.  
  
Josh Dawes, head of the clan, was sitting around with other three of the group of six (excluding Curt and Tawny) -- Brent, Abby and Rockie -- cooking up. Curt stood leaning against the far wall, smoking a cigarette, watching. Tawny was passed out in the room they shared.  
  
He watched the ecstasy upon Abby's face, shivered at her heady moans after Josh had depressed the plunger of the syringe, flooding her system with liquid euphoria.  
  
"Can I try?"  
  
He'd been so quiet Josh hadn't even known he was in the room, let alone watching with rapt attention. Josh's hungry gaze moved from the still-flying Abby to the scrawny little vagabond he'd taken under his wing. The little one with the shaggy dark hair and expressive eyes that never stayed the same colour. Not the Barbie doll, but the fallen angel.  
  
"No."  
  
Curt's eyes narrowed. "Why?"  
  
"You ain't nothin' but a kid, man. Plus, you ain't gonna like it. No-one ever really does, first try."  
  
"Maybe I'll surprise you."  
  
"Doubtful," Josh replied, but he couldn't help his crooked smirk. Spunky little bastard, that kid. He sighed. Hard to deny that. "Fine. C'mere."  
  
Curt walked over and took a seat next to Josh. He watched intently as Josh cooked him up a shot -- watched him dissolve the white powder in the spoonful of water and heat it over his Zippo's flame until it bubbled. Sucked it up into the hypodermic. As he did this, he had instructed Curt to cinch his belt round his upper arm, tight --which Curt had done -- and he balled his hand into a fist.  
  
Josh tapped up a vein on the inside of Curt's elbow, stark blue-green against the translucent porcelain colour of his skin.  
  
He watched the metal needle slip beneath the skin, feeling the slight "pop" feeling as it punctured. He didn't flinch; he only stared, mesmerised, his eyes a hard green-grey. Josh depressed the plunger as Curt watched the whitish liquid disappear, to course through his blood, rush through his system.  
  
It took a moment -- a fluttering heartbeat -- and it hit. A whirling rush. It was wonderful. It was beautiful. It turned him upside-down and inside-out for a moment, but the pleasure definitely outweighed any nausea or confusion. He loved it. A way to wash away his pain -- something he had been searching for since he left the nuthouse. And here it was. And hell, it was fucking nirvana.  
  
He didn't want to come down for a while -- never, really.  
  
He was hooked. And in the five days till his birthday, March 31st, he made sure he stayed that way.  
  
He was fifteen and a junkie.  
  
And he didn't give a damn.  
  
He had found his escape.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Tumbling Down" by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers and the Venus in Furs)_


	7. Chapter Six: Crazy Chords

_\---------t-h-e-y---s-a-i-d---y-o-u---w-e-r-e---h-o-t---s-t-u-f-f-----------_

It had been Tawny's idea, actually.

  
  
The smoke from their joints drifted in lazy, majestic spirals. Tawny laid upon the hardwood floor, his golden hair fanned out round his head like an angel's halo, shirtless, wearing a long flowing skirt. He looked beautiful, Curt thought. A smile tugged at his lips at the thought of exactly what Tawny was wearing -- or rather, not wearing -- under that skirt.  
  
Curt himself sat perched upon a stool, playing the guitar. He had steadfastly determined that he would avoid saying his brother's name as much as possible, and keep from thinking about him just as much. It was a hard job, but it seemed to be working. The nightmares had left long ago.  
  
"Man, wouldn't it be fuckin' bonzer if you had a band? I mean, you're awesome on that guitar, and bein' on stage..." Tawny suddenly mused aloud.  
  
"If I could find anybody," Curt replied, almost bitterly. It had been three years. He was eighteen now. And he couldn't really say that he'd done anything really productive in his life past steal stuff. He had done a couple of odd jobs here and there, but that wasn't anything. He knew a lot of people; a lot of people knew him. He just didn't trust anyone past Tawny, maybe Josh on a good day, Abby when he was feeling lonely and he'd had enough of Tawny's crazy tangents. But Tawny was his life. He had done pretty much next to nothing in the three years. But with that realisation, Tawny's idea -- as offhand as it had been -- seemed even better in that light.  
  
"Well, alright, then. All we gotta do is scout out some people, love. Not too hard. Head done to the music shop -- there's always blokes hangin' about there."  
  
Curt put down the guitar and laid down next to Tawny. The twenty-one-year-old wrapped an arm round Curt and kissed him.  
  
"You'll be a star, love. A star in your own right."  
  
" _If_  it works out."

"It will. You are  _it._  Who wouldn't wanna play with you?" Tawny gave him a sly smile. Curt punched him in the shoulder.

"Dirty bastard."

"Can't fault me if I'm right -- which I am. Not my fault you're so damned beautiful. Those eyes, that mouth, that ass, that cock..."

Tawny's idea was forgotten then. It didn't come up for another two weeks.

\---------------

"I wanna show you somethin', love." Tawny dragged Curt down the street.

"Tawny, I was in charge of getting dinner," Curt protested. "Getting" was a loosely-used term. "Lifting" was more accurate.

"Bugger it! It's your half-birthday and  _my_  bloody birthday and I got you a present."  
 _  
Damn._ Curt had completely forgotten that today was October 1st. He mentally made a note to lift something for Tawny -- or buy something, for a change (he had a meagre stash of cash).

As Tawny charged down the sidewalk, Curt was distracted by a jam-session going on in the music store. His sudden stop brought Tawny up short.

"Hey!"

But Curt had wrested his wrist from Tawny's grip and was ducking into the shop.

"Hey, what's your name, man?"

Curt had momentarily been taken aback by the large assortment of guitars, basses, drums, keyboards, saxophones and other instruments, gear and accessories. He hadn't realised that the session had stopped as soon as he had walked in. He looked over to his right at the question. It was the drummer who had spoken, because as Curt finally showed acknowledgment, he said, "Huh, then?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you angel. Ain't nobody else I'm lookin' at."

"Why d'ya need to know?"

" 'Cause ya look like a singer," the drummer said, rolling his eyes. "And we need one."

"Wild. It's Curt Wild."

"Sweet," remarked the bassist. Curt jumped at the loud knock on the window. It was Tawny. He motioned with his head for the spaz to come on in, then.

"Curt, man. C'mon. It's gonna be gone by the time your slow ass gets there," Tawny griped. He looked over at the band. "G'day, mates." His eyes went back to Curt. Damn, he didn't need to pout or beg with those big eyes.

"Hey, man!" said the bassist,. "We were discussing a job offer with him."

"Well," Tawny said. He grabbed a flyer off the front counter and a pen and wrote the address of the squat in his backwards-tilting lefthanded script. It looked pretty, Curt noted absently. He had never noticed -- he didn't think he'd ever seen Tawny write.

Tawny handed the paper over to the bassist. "You all meet us there tomorrow." He grabbed Curt's arm.

"And just who the fuck are you?" the bassist called after them.

Tawny looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting. "Consider me his manager."

\------------------

"Ta-dah!"

Curt's eyes widened. "Holy shit, Tawny!" He looked at the mongrel in their room with sudden suspicion. "Man, it looks like it'll attack me if I look at it sideways."

Tawny shoved Curt's shaggy head. "Then you'd be dead already. No, I found it wonderin' down the lane -- it looked...like you. So I took it in. Likes deviled ham. I think it's part wolf, man."

Curt looked at him. "Part  _wolf_??" Curt looked back at the dog. It looked so mangy...and so forlorn, deep back in its yellow eyes. It cocked its head to the side. Curt crouched down, and it growled at him.

"Hey. Don't be like that, man. C'mon. Here..." Curt didn't know what the hell to call it. He finally just shook his head and shrugged. "Scruffs." He clicked his tongue. "C'mere, Scruffs."

Tawny was trying hard not to burst out laughing. He sat down on the floor beside Curt and whispered in his ear, "What the hell kinda name is that?"

Curt gave him a black scowl. Tawny shook his head. He clapped his hands.

"Here, boy!"

The dog canted over. "Hey!" Curt scoffed. Tawny ruffled the dog's ears and cooed at it. He smiled at Curt. "Ya can't be wishy-washy with him, mate."

"I'm not wishy-washy. So much for  _your_  present."

One of Tawny's golden eyebrows arched, a subdued reaction to the mention of a present that his eyes were severely betraying. They were practically shining at the idea of a present. "Oh, really?"

Curt thought quick. And it was a better idea that buying a present, that was for sure. No cost, no searching. True, it was always available, really, but he could make it special. And like Tawny seemed to enjoy Scruffs, Curt knew he'd enjoy this present, too.

He told Tawny to give him a minute and stuck his head out the door. "Rockie, man!"

Rockie looked up at Curt from the floor.

"You gotta get the food, man."

"Wha'?"

"Yeah, man. Tonight's your night." Rockie didn't know his head was on his shoulders ninety per cent of the time.

"Really?"

"Yeah, man. C'mon. Get up."

" _Shiiit._ " Rockie got to his feet and Curt didn't wait to see how far Rockie got. He shut the bedroom door, turning back to Tawny.

"So where's my present?"

Curt sauntered up to him, pushed him rather hard back against the wall. Tawny smiled.

"It's right here,  _mate._ "

"Happy --  _happy_  -- bonzer birthday to me."

\-----------------

Curt was rudely awakened at eleven-thirty the next morning.

" _Fuck._ Stupid fucking ass-fuck dipshit fuck." The pounding on the bedroom door almost rivalled the throbbing in his temples. Last night had been a damned marathon. Sex, drinking, more sex, good smoke, more drinking, even more sex. Josh was gonna kill them -- they'd blown through a good deal of the limited alcohol stash. And then there was this beautiful wake-up call.  
  
"Tawny," he groaned, shoving at his lover who was using him as a human pillow. He blew Tawny's hair out of his mouth as all Tawny did was turn his head away. Curt decided to yank a handful.  
  
"What the fuck!" Tawny howled.  
  
And speak of the devil, it turned out to be Josh at the door. "Man, there's people out in the goddamned hall saying they're here to talk to you, Curt!" he yelled though the door.  
  
Curt slapped his forehead. "This is all  _your_  damned fault." He glowered at Tawny.

"Sure. Yeah. Fine." Today wasn't going to be fun. And it would not be like this if they'd gotten just...several more hours of sleep. Curt slid on his jeans and shoved an agitated hand back through his dishevelled hair. He kicked Tawny in the back on the way out.  
  
"Took you long enough," Josh said as Curt came out of the room. Dawes was leaned back against the wall beside the door. "I'm surprised you can walk after all that noise I heard last night."  
  
"Guess I did the damage, 'cause he's still asleep on the floor."  
  
Dawes' eyebrows rose and he chuckled. "Way to go, little Drifter." Josh called him "Drifter" not because of just his vagabond status -- still -- but from how he had been when he was on heroin. It had stuck, even when he was off junk, as he was now, though he was seriously considering that getting back on would be a smart decision.  
  
"Who'dah known? Little Curt the Cockmaster. You're enough of a tease, that's for sure. I oughta buy you a baseball bat, man."  
  
"Screw yourself, Josh."  
  
"Hey, man. There's more out there eyeing you than you know, man," he laughed.  
  
"Yeah." Curt was working hard to keep himself in cheque. "Give me a smoke and lemme go talk to these guys."  
  
Josh forked over a Marlboro and Curt lit it as he walked downstairs. That first drag did a lot to calm and almost centre him. At least he wasn't as eager to kick someone's head in for a sideways look.  
  
"Hey, guys," he greeted, copping a squat on the next to the bottom stair.  
  
"Curt, right?" All three of them were there -- the drummer, guitarist and bassist -- but Curt would be damned if he could tell them apart without their instruments. Not because they looked alike, just because he just didn't know.  
  
Curt took another drag. "That'd be me," he said, almost flippantly.  
  
" 'Course," the same guy replied sardonically. "I'm Tom -- play bass. That's Jack; he's our drummer. And Scott, guitarist."  
  
Curt nodded. "So," continued Tom. "Where's your 'manager'?"  
  
"He's asleep for right now. Had a long night last night." Curt kept his expression neutral, but if the guys had been looking closely, they would have noted the mischievous glint in Curt's currently greenish eyes.  
  
"Look," Scott cut in as Tom opened his mouth to talk again. "Love to keep this small talk going, but let's cut to the chase: We are in bad damn need as a band. Hell, we don't even have a name, not to mention a singer."  
  
"I guess you are in bad."  
  
"Right. So, tell us your creds, man -- just so's we know about you; you're already in."  
  
Curt's eyebrows rose at that.  _That was easy._  "I play guitar."

""Have you sung before?"  
  
Curt couldn't help the small, private smile that flitted across his lips. He licked his bottom lip. "I'm told I've got a beautiful voice."  
  
"What you got'll do. We have a gig at the Green Light Bar two weeks from now."  
  
Jack cleared his throat. "Ahem. One," he muttered.  
  
"One?"  
  
"Yeah. It was two weeks when we signed up last week."  
  
"Damn. You're right." Scott snapped his fingers. He turned back to Curt. "So...we got one week. Can you learn five or so songs that quick?"  
  
Curt wanted to do this. "I'll do my damnedest."  
  
"See?" Scott appealed to his bandmates. "Told ya he was the one." Jack gave a noncommittal shrug. Tom didn't react.  
  
"Screw them," Scott said good-naturedly, dismissing their reactions -- or more rightly, their lack thereof -- with a wave of his hand. "Look, Curt. You've got a rocker's name, looks. You've probably got a good voice. Just be down at the music store everyday this week at three for practise and it's cool."  
  
"Done, man. Tomorrow?"  
  
"Right-O. Three, man. Don't forget." The guys left with that and Curt sat back down on his stair, pleased. He took the last drag off his Marlboro and almost pissed himself as Scruffs bounded down upon him as he was smashing his cigarette out against the stair.  
  
"Told you you'd be a star."  
  
Curt looked up to see Tawny on the top stair, head ducked and between his hands, his lion's mane dishevelled, more so than usual.  
  
"Hard night?" Curt cajoled, knowing how close he was to getting his tongue cut out.  
  
"No, ass. I feel right as bloody rain. My bloody head doesn't hurt every time I breathe. My back doesn't hurt from where  _you bloody kicked me._  My legs are fine. My ass -- when the hell did you let your nails grow?"

Curt smiled. "Dunno. C'mon, man. The dog's hungry."

\------------------

He was seven minutes late to his first practise session. "Guess that's not too bad," was the only comment made before a notebook was thrust into Curt's hands. He leafed through it, finding six songs. They were all short, rather simple.  
  
"Ready to try one out, Curt?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
" 'Kay," Scott said. "Let's take it from the top. First song. Got the mic, Curt? Sound check." The amps for Tom and Scott's guitars were fine, as was the microphone for Curt.  
  
"1...2 and a 1 - 2 -3." The guitar and bass hit into the intro, followed a couple bars later by the drums. Curt entered when it felt right. It worked great. The first rehearsal went awesomely, running until about five.  
  
"So, what are we?" Curt asked as he grabbed up his ratty bomber, preparing to leave.  
  
"You mean like a name? Hell, I dunno," replied Scott.  
  
"We look like a bunch of damned sewer-rats," mumbled Jack.  
  
"Sewer-Rats. Hey, whaddabout that?" Tom -- as expected -- liked it.  
  
"Yeah, man, but we ain't in New York," Curt said, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Maybe just Rats? Huh?"  
  
"That works," Scott said, and Scott was the final say.  
  
And thus Curt Wild and the Rats were born.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Baby's on Fire" by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers and the Venus in Furs)_


	8. Chapter Seven: Glam

_\----m-a-n-g-le---m-y---m-i-n-d,---l-o-v-e---m-e---s-u-b-l-i-m-e,---d-o---i-t---i-n---s-t-y-l-e----_

Brian had been many things. "Fashion whore" was one that Curt himself had labelled Brian. It was not as if it was not  _completely_ obvious, but giving it a label had emphasised it.

Curt wouldn't be caught dead in most of Brian's clothes. He was fairly simple himself -- shirt in a solid colour or two or three. Pants -- jeans or leather. No underwear, but he couldn't hold that against Brian because he didn't wear any either. But Brian -- neon colours, shimmers, sparkles, sequins, chiffon, taffeta, silk, satin, polyester, cotton, leather -- every blinking thing possible under the sun. Extravagant, flamboyant, diva, dynamic, and of course, fairy. But damn the beautiful bastard, he'd rubbed off on his spastic, grungy lover. Just a bit.

"You'd make a beautiful bird," Brian sniggered one night as they kicked back in their room. He was positively sloshing he was so smashed. He smudged a thumb in the eyeliner at the corner of Curt's eye.

"Yeah, and you are one," Curt shot back. he wasn't quite as tipsy as Brian, but he couldn't get the absurd grin off his face. Champage did some funny things.

Brian laughed again. A film of sudden sobriety -- but only fleeting for the moment -- came over Brian's cerulean eyes as he rolled atop Curt, leaning back and straddling the American's hips. He looked down upon Curt, head cocked to the side.

"You're my music."

Curt gave him an incredulous look at the out-of-the-blue remark, and blinked. "What?"

Brian smiled dreamily -- dazzling -- as his soft fingers tracing patterns on the centre of Curt's chest. He "walked" his index and middle fingers up Curt's chest and neck, then framed one side of the handsome face, thumb brushing idly over the cleft in his chin. Hot, electric blue eyes locked with dazed slate blue ones. "I need to tart you up," Bri said simply.

"What? -- No."

"Oh, c’mon, Curt. All you wear is that bloody eyeliner. The only time I ever saw you wear anything else on you makeup-wise was when you shook that glitter on you."

"I was high that night."

Brian leaned forward, close. "I knew I loved you that night. Envied, and wanted."  _Wanted to be, wanted to know._ His breath was hot against Curt's ear. He tried to shift his position just a bit -- his beloved leather pants were becoming all too tight and confining -- but he couldn't. Brian had his ass placed just right, effectively pinning him.

Bri smiled wickedly. He knew quite well what he was doing. "Unh-uh, love. Say yes."

"Bri..."

"Hm?"

Curt rolled his eyes. How bad could it be? He could wash it off in a couple of hours, Brian's whims satisfied as well as the over-eager part of his own anatomy. He sighed heavily, noting the bright spark victory brought to Brian's eyes. He positively glowed. Heart-stopping.

"Fine."

"Ah, now, love. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Damn those full lips and his wicked charm.

Brian dragged Curt from the plush comfort of the bed, leading him as if he were a small child. He plopped Curt down in the low-backed chair in front of the vanity in the master bathroom. A mess of a wide array of makeup was strewn all across the marble countertop. Curt looked at his reflection in the large mirror that ran the length of the wall above the top of the vanity. He looked as he had always had since he had joined up with Brian Slade -- with the shoulder-length bleach-blond hair and the smudged kohl-lined eyes. The rest was how it had been forever: Haunted, soulful eyes that would be damned if they would stay the same colour for too long. Straight nose. Lips and mouth ever the same -- the phrase " _You kiss your mother with that mouth?_ " came to mind. No, he hadn't since about age six, which was good because since then, his mouth had been in some very interesting places. His tongue wet his bottom lip unconsciously. There was the little mole on his right cheek -- he turned his head -- and the one on the left side of his neck. More elsewhere. He looked back at the mirror. Brian's hot eyes glittered at his shoulder in the dim light. The blue and green-shaded lids slid down over them as Brian closed his eyes as he kissed the side of Curt's neck. Had he said something? Curt didn't know. All too suddenly, he was tripping down a vague memory lane -- he couldn't say exactly what he was feeling, but it was that sensation of, "I went from there to here. Damn."

He felt Brian's warm breath in his ear, then: "Are you ready to be made up, then?"

Curt took a deep breath. "Do your fuckin' thing." He cut Brian a look -- "make me look like a clown and I'll kill you in a really diabolical way" kind of look -- but also could not help a little smile. "Brian's _fuckin'_ thing". He had quite a few, actually. Brian smiled back, and then -- surprising Curt -- climbed into his lover's lap and straddled him, compact of eyeshadow in hand. There was a range of cool colours in little squares within the handheld black case.

"Close your eyes, Curt."

Curt realised then that he had been staring. With a resigned sigh as he bit back his retort of "Yes, Master," Curt relaxed and his eyelids fluttered down, coppery lashes feathery against his pale cheeks. The smooth, gentle strokes with which Brian applied the makeup were hypnotic, and Curt found himself lulled into like a meditative state. All past Brian's hands, his body -- the heat it radiated, the weight of it in Curt's lap -- his soft, open-mouthed breath (Brian never could put on makeup or concentrate with his mouth closed) -- nothing existed past that. No Mandy, no Jerry, no contracts, no obligations -- just desires. Him and Brian. Elemental. Primal. And so very fairy.

"So, Bri," Curt said, eyes still closed as Brian buffed a coral blush on his cheekbones. "This your makeup, or dear Mandy's?" His voice carried a faint underlying bitterness at Mandy's name. She and Curt had never gotten on. Their only connection was an undying love of Brian. And that was it.

"A bit of both." Brian didn't think it quite necessary to elaborate that after he and Curt had started sleeping together, Mandy had decided to take a good deal of "more-needed" items down to a guest room. She had left some things, though, if only to show Brian she was still his  _wife._

Brian didn't understand why she was so testy about Curt...though, he could think of what  _her_  reason was. Curt was not just a passing fancy or a fallback shag. Curt was something  _more_. Mandy was entitled to feel threatened. He was encroaching on territory that had once firmly been hers. No matter. Brian wanted them both. And he always got what he wanted. That's why he was such a big star. That's why Curt was here -- hell, that's why they were here in the bathroom, Curt beneath him as he dolled him up. Brian had wanted it. And he got it.

Curt's lips parted softly, unconsciously, as Brian applied something to his lips...and as he registered the fact, his eyes flashed open and narrowed, a searing cobalt in colour, as he jerked his head back.

"I'm not a fuckin' girl; no fuckin' lipstick, Bri."

"It looks quite nice, actually."

Curt turned his head and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But he didn't at first see his own face in the mirror. He saw someone else's... A familiar face, with bloodred lips, much as his were now. Pale brown freckles across tan skin. Hair a little longer than his own, unruly and golden-brown. And impossible, big grey-greenish-brown eyes.

The almost-forgotten memory was shattered when Brian grabbed his chin and turned Curt's face back toward him and kissed him hard. When he pulled back, red was smeared upon his own lips.

"I guess I'm finished," Brian sighed, crawling off of Curt's lap and circling behind him again. Again, he ducked his head near Curt's ear. "What d'you think?"

"Whadda--?" Curt looked at his reflection in the mirror -- this time seeing himself -- knowing that Brian was observing his every expression. "It's...okay. It looks..." He couldn't force out the word.

Truth was, he did not look bad at all. The shadow upon his eyes went from a mauve purple on the inside, fading into a cobalt blue in the centre, to fade out in straight silver at the outer edge. Not overly striking, but it complimented his eyes and wasn't too stark against his pale hair. His lips were striking -- everything else was subdued, but his lips stood out. He didn't look half-bad -- maybe even good -- but Curt Wild would never be a makeup kind of guy. He liked his eyeliner. It was dark, dramatic. Kind of symbolic to him. And the colour of his lips had somehow unlodged a forgotten memory that still ached.

"When can I take this off?"

"Oh, c'mon, Curt. You're such a killjoy. You do look nice. Sexy."

"Yeah, but I'm not cool with this, man."

"What? Bad flashback? You never mentioned your brother put you in drag."

"Look," Curt said, temper suddenly flaring. "I ain't never been in drag in my entire life, okay? Second -- my brother only wanted sex, end of story."

"Bloody hell, I -- I didn't mean anything by it."

"Yeah, well."

Brian gave Curt a pretty pink pout, which Curt pointedly ignored. The nibbling on the side of his neck was harder to ignore.

"I am sorry," Brian whispered in his ear. He nipped at it.

Curt shivered. "Nevermind it," he said, voice still tight.

"C'mon, let's wash it off."

Brian grabbed Curt's hand and dragged him into the adjoining room which held the shower, tub and toilet and dragged him into the shower. As soon as the spray of hot water hit his face and he felt Brian's gentle hands begin to wash him, the old memories began to fade, locked back into their mental box again. He turned to Brian, blond hair plastered to his scalp, strands haphazardly stuck to the side of his face, makeup streaming down it. He pushed Brian back against the back wall and kissed him hard, desperate, biting his lip. When they finally pulled apart, the red that painted their lips was now from blood, not only the remnants of the lipstick. It comforted Curt, absurdly enough. Pain was something he knew.

"Bri..."

Brian looked into Curt's eyes, a pained, haunted opaque grey-green.  _Make it right,_ they said.  _Make me hurt. I need to feel._ Brian knew Curt hated how much his eyes revealed about his heart. He also knew that on a certain level, he -- as Brian himself did -- equated hurt --pain --with love.

He willingly obliged Curt. Curt was, after all, his -- Brian's.

* * *

_(The lyric in page break is from "Sebastian" by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers)_


	9. Chapter Eight: Love is Cruel

_\-----y-o-u---w-e-r-e---t-h-e---r-a-v-e-n---o-f---O-c-t-o-b-e-r-----_

_Build me up, break me down._  He always knew that's how his life would go. What he did not understand was how it would catch him so off-guard when it happened.

\----------

The Rats were upstart local celebrities. They were a sensation. And like most sensation, word gets out about you. Anthony Starr, a record producer actually based in Detroit started to hear buzz on these young ruffians with their crazy lead singer and signature style. He decided to see them in action down at their mainstay, the Green Light Bar. He loved their sounded, and loved the little darkheaded spaz with the growling vocals -- the one everyone talked about -- Curt Wild. He followed their next couple of shows. They were consistent. He wondered how anyone let this little gem get under the radar.

" 'Cuse me," Starr said, wading through a bunch of rabid fans.  _Shit, if they've got crowds like this..._  He could hear the "cha-ching" in his mind. These boys were something else.

"Hey, boys!" he called, jogging up to them. The little lead singer looked up at him, beer in hand.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Anthony Starr, producer. You, boys, are fuckin' amazing. Whaddya say to signin' with me -- becoming the big stars you know you are?"

Starr watched them, gauging their reactions. The bassist's eyes lit up like stars. The vocalist turned to his crew, but Starr could tell his mind was made.

"Whaddya say, guys?"

"Fuck yeah!" the bassist all but squealed. He did not seem to be taken into account.

"Jack, Scott?"

"Fuck, man. Why not?" the guitarist said. "Sounds far out to me."

Curt turned back to Starr. "Well, man. Seems we've gotta fuckin' deal."

\----------

Before long, Curt Wild and the Rats had secured a date for a huge concert. It was a gig where there would be other bands, but still, it was the biggest thing they had ever done, the most exposure they had ever had. At a noted event. Underground, true. But hell, that was a huge following in and of itself.

It was the beginning of their superstardom.

Curt lay reeling in his full-sized bed, Tawny right beside him. They lay on their sides, face to face. Tawny playfully draped his long hair over both their faces. With a laugh, Curt let it stay.

"You're never gonna grow up, are you?" he inquired, looking into Tawny's face. Those familiar freckles he had tried once to count (he'd failed miserably, not to mention he had been high) and those improbable eyes.

Tawny met his gaze squarely. "I'll grow up when you do," was his simple reply.

"You're just like when I met you. It's been years and you haven't changed."

"Sure I have: I don't take me meds as a rule now," Tawny deadpanned.

"True."

"You've not changed all that much. Still that pretty little fairy with those eyes." Tawny kissed the tip of Curt's nose.

"Yeah, but I'm a rockstar now."

"Yeah."

"God, Tawny. That huge-ass concert is on Saturday, man." Curt had rolled over onto his back.

"Yeah." Tawny's usually jaunty voice had an absent quality to it, as if the reply was automatic.

"You 'kay, Tawny?" Curt asked, looking back over at him. Tawny looked up and flashed him a quirky smile.

"Bonzer." He propped himself up on one elbow and leaned forward to kiss Curt thoroughly.

"I love you, Tawny." So very rarely did those words ever slip from either of their lips. Over the entire course of their relationship, from the nuthouse on, both could count on one hand the number of times those three words -- "I love you" -- had been uttered by them.

Tawny smiled -- a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes -- and sighed. He lay back down, on his back this time,. Curt rolled to his side, throwing an arm and leg across Tawny as Tawny hooked an arm around him. Both were quite the possessive sleepers.

"You too, Curt."

That of course, never counted.

\-----------

"I love you, Curt. Go knock 'em out, love."

A quirky grin from both to each other, and Curt raced off to jump on stage to start the concert that would commence the Rats' fast rise to superstardom and national notoriety. As Curt waited for the lights to suddenly flash on, he looked to the side, catching Tawny's bright, big beautiful eyes. Tawny gave him a half-smile, nodded to him to go do his thing and then melted back away into the shadows.

Away out of Curt's life.

\----------

Curt knew something wasn't right as soon as he stepped off the stage, ears still ringing from the loud music, his shouted lyrics and the audience's screams --good and bad.

He couldn't find Tawny.  _Maybe he's gone home. Yeah, that's it._  Later, he would wonder why he had held out that pathetic, feeble hope. But he had. He'd reasoned it out in his head. Tawny, like himself, was not a big fan of crowds. Curt, of course, didn't see audiences as crowds. He was up before them, doing his thing. If he was amongst them though...well, that was when the agoraphobia kicked in.

Curt was nervy the entire trip back to his and Tawny's apartment. It only took thirty minutes, but it felt like ages.

"Tawny!" Curt called as he burst through the door. "God, Tawny -- we kicked ass! Tawny! Tawny, where're ya? We're gonna be big, Tawny." He had a strange feeling, one that made the words he was saying die in his throat though he still forced them out. He pushed it aside.

 _The bedroom,_  Curt figured. Yeah, that was it. _Congratulatory sex._  He smiled and dashed up the stairs to the bedroom.

"Tawny..." Curt said as he threw open the door.

Nothing.

No.

No, no, no.

That strange feeling was back, with a vengeance. It was panicky. It clenched his chest in an icy vise, making it hard to breathe. He could hear his pulse in his ears. Everything was suddenly magnified, stark and sharp --painful --but the colours muted, dull. Curt felt like he'd been punched in the gut and a knife jabbed and twisted in his heart. He felt sick.

The feeling of loss, of the suddenly bereft.

Of betrayal.

_"TAWNY!"_

Curt had felt something...slip...long ago, in the fight with Arik before he and Tawny had runaway. It had been falling for awhile, but at that moment it had slipped and clicked in his mind. Now it snapped, completely.

His only constant -- the person he had loved -- was gone. As suddenly as he had come into Curt Wild's life, Talbert Koyel was now just...out of it. He had left him. Tawny had walked out on him.

_"You bastard! You-goddamned-piece-of-shit-stupid-motherfucking-asshole! You fucking LIAR!"_

Curt ripped into the room, raging, screaming, crying. And all his rage was nothing but a mask for the absolute pain and fear Tawny's betrayal had struck him with.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Bitter's End" by Paul Kimble)_


	10. Chapter Nine: Interlude in a Purple Frock

_\-----y-o-u---w-e-r-e---b-o-r-n---f-o-r---s-t-a-r-d-o-m-'s---c-r-o-w-n-----_

_He jumped around onstage, movements random, crazy and spastic. He glistened in the lights from the oil he had dribbled down over his face and onto his chest, which he had then smeared in there. He sparkled from the glitter he had shook about, upon himself and all round. God, had there been a moment when he hadn't had a hand down his pants? Then of course, he had dropped those completely for a spell._

_Oh, God, how bold that was. The crowd -- most of them hated him. He didn't seem to care._

_He was crazy. An utterly spastic nutter._

_And so damned amazing. So bloody enviable._

_So beautiful and strange he was almost exotic...._

\---------------------------

"Brian? Brian, darling. Honestly, where does your mind go?"

Brian Slade snapped from his reverie. He looked up at his wife, Mandy, and offered a smile. "To the land of glitter," he replied to her rhetorical question, "where all dreams come true."

Mandy rolled her eyes and took a drag off her cigarette. She shrugged. "Soon you won't have to daydream to get there, eh, love?"

Brian smiled, blue eyes glittering. "Exactly." He lay back on the ground, arms folded behind his head, fingers threading through his long auburn hair.

_Maybe Curt Wild will be there, too._

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "The Whole Shebang" by Grant Lee Buffalo)_


	11. Chapter Ten: True Form

_\--------a---t-o-r-t-u-o-u-s---h-a-r-d-s-h-i-p--------_

Maxwell Demon.

So much was packed into those two words, that one name.

Maxwell Demon, the sparkly blue alien who came to Earth from outer space. The glam rock messiah.

Brian Slade's alter ego.

Maxwell Demon, who killed away the Brian Slade everyone once knew.

The Brian Slade Curt Wild and Mandy Slade had once loved, had thought they knew so intimately.

(Truth was, Brian always kept  _something_  secret.)

"The Brian Slade I knew would've fuckin' stuck up for me back there in the studio!" Curt raged. He stood at one side of the bedroom, Brian stood across from him -- well, Brian's  _body_  stood across from him, but he was quite certain that very little remained  _Brian Slade._  That fiendish bastard Maxwell was now the dominant personality.

"I still  _am_  the Brian you knew!" There -- that  _was_  Brian, with desperation written in his wide blue eyes. But then it was gone.

"No," Curt said simply. "You're not. Not anymore.

"Look, Bri. I want to stay. I want to stay with  _you._  But you're not  _you_  anymore. You've lived the life of Maxwell-fucking-Demon for so long it's gone to your head."

"What the fuck do you know?" Brian shouted, jumping to the defensive. "Who the fuck are you to tell me who or what I bloody well am? Some junky fairy? Some spastic product of an American trash trailer park? A little  _bitch_  who was fucked over by his brother? Fuck  _you_ , Curt. You have no fucking right to tell me a  _bloody_ thing. I saved your pathetic career! You were floundering in your post-junky  _shit_  with nowhere to go and  _I_  picked you up and gave you a new life, a second chance!"

" _I_  found someone to  _love!_ " Curt felt the word slash into his throat as he spat it out without thought. Love. Love was such a cruel bitch. It'd hurt him bad. And he'd been fool enough to fall and let it happen again. He turned and punched the wall behind him with a shout, venting just a slight bit of the excess anger he was feeling. He fished out his cigarettes from his pocket and jerkily lit one. He took a long drag, hoping it would calm him, just a fraction. If it didn't, he was bound to flip and do something he might very well later regret. He looked back at Brian, who stood with his arms folded over his chest, blue eyes cold and calculating. Maxwell's eyes. Curt shook his head, running a hand back through his long blond hair.

"This isn't just Maxwell, is it? It's just the true you in a new 'body'. Brian Slade -- the Brian I knew, that I... He was just a fuckin' daydream, huh? Do you even know who the hell the real you is anymore?"

"You're cracked, Curt. Absolutely fuckin' out there." Brian saw the flames leap up with his words as Curt narrowed his currently dark, cold grey-green eyes.

"I don't know you." Curt's voice was slightly odd. He kept it controlled, his expression neutral. But inside he was a conflicted tempest, caught between uncontrollable rage and overwhelming hurt at another earth-shattering betrayal.

"This is what it's come to then." Brian's voice could have frozen over hell.

"Yeah. I'm leaving."

"Get out then."

Curt looked up, shocked by that. But he quickly schooled his expression back to its core of anger. "I don't fuckin'  _know_  what the fuck's happened to you, but I don't know  _you_  anymore."

"Shut up your fuckin' shit!" His voice broke, just slightly. Curt was far beyond sympathy of any sort. He had gathered his black leather duster from the chair beside the door and flung it on as he stormed out, ignoring Brian completely.

As he burst out the back door, he heard Brian fling up his window.

" _Piss off! Go on, then -- back to your wolves! Your junky twerps! Your bloody shocktreatment! AND FUCK YOU, TOO!_ "

Curt didn't acknowledge him. He saw Mandy standing there out of the corner of his eye as he surged past. She stood silent, witness to the whole mess. Good for her. She could go comfort the bastard.

Right now, Curt needed a vacant room to rip the hell out of and a good supply of alcohol.

And not to cry. If he did, he'd never stop.

\---------------

Brian stood watching Curt Wild's retreating form. He hadn't even looked back. Brian could feel the hot tears that had stung his eyes as he acted so cold build, feel the impossible burning in his cheeks. The cool night breeze caressed his face, almost as if in sympathy.  
  
He saw Mandy, just standing there.  _How dare she,_ he thought, and slammed down the window. He backed away, numb. It was over. It was all falling apart. All that he had loved -- that had made _him._  It was all going to bloody hell in a fucking handcart. Mandy had been alienated long ago. Curt was gone. And he couldn't come back, regardless of if Brian wanted him to or not. Brian was Maxwell Demon. Maxwell Demon was fame. It was the attention Brian so desperately craved, as bad as Curt had for a fix. And while Brian Slade loved Curt -- because honestly, he did -- he just couldn't let that fame fall away.

And so Brian Slade fell back across his bed, and wondered what the hell he was going to do, all the while steeling himself for the coldness he knew he was going to have to project. He couldn't at that moment know how that coldness was one day going to go straight to his soul.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Tumbling Down" by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers and the Venus in Furs)_


	12. Chapter Eleven: Wistful Thinking

_\--------s-u-c-h---a---s-a-d---a-f-f-a-i-r--------_

He had never really resented her, but he had also never exactly liked her. In truth, Curt Wild had been rather indifferent to Mandy Slade. She'd been there first, with Brian, and Brian had played them both. Curt and Mandy had rather avoided each other.

She had resented him. She knew that Brian worshipped Curt Wild because he envied him so. She had seen it in his eyes all those years ago. Curt was...well, he was a consuming entity. Electric. Intense. She had lost part of Brian to Curt Wild the night of that concert. And then Curt was part of their life. She wasn't the centre of Brian's world anymore -- had she ever been, really? -- though she was still granted some attention. But that wasn't enough. She was his  _wife._  Mandy wanted her  _husband._ Her husband wanted them both. Curt wanted her husband. A black little triangle with Brian Slade as the focus. Bri meant the world to both her and Curt.

Maybe that was why they both found themselves drawn to each other after "The Stunt" -- Brian's supposed assassination and revealed hoax.

It was awkward, and completely by chance.

Mandy had stayed in a haze. She knew Brian wasn't  _dead_ dead. But he was dead to her. Hence the divorce papers she had thrown upon his pile of coke -- " _So you won't forget,_ " she had hissed venomously. " _I already have,_ " he had had the gall to shoot back. And then that little bitch of his, that crazy little... _Shannon_...had come in to "escort" her out. How dare they! Maybe it was better when she had thought he was actually dead. So she let herself again. Oh, of course she knew quite well he was...about...but he was dead to her. And she was numb to the world.

She stumbled into a bar one night, not quite sure why or when or what. Reality was creeping in on her and she needed to push it away. She had sat at a table in the back, oblivious to her surroundings. Her first scotch took all of her attention, anyways. It numbed only a tiny fraction of her pain, but it was enough to allow her the ability to look round.

Only to be shocked hard when her eyes lighted on something instantly recognisable. Some _one_ unforgettable. Someone from the past life she wanted to ignore.

" _Curt?_ "

At first he did not want to look up. For one, he couldn't place the voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, but... For two, he was working hard on trying to drown himself. He had been for quite sometime -- didn't know how long; the days had blurred into weeks, the weeks into months... But he looked up when the woman said his name a second time.

And it shocked the shit out of him to realise who it was.

He might be hell with placing names and faces, but she was one he should know well enough: Mandy. Fuckin' Mandy Slade. His ex-lover's ex-wife.

She sat at the table across from him, although she was now getting up to sit across from him at his table. She looked a right mess, what with her usually perfectly done hair dishevelled -- still blond, he noted, though the dark roots were starting to show -- and her makeup was smudged and smeared. Dark circles were beneath her eyes, which were bloodshot, contrasting rather nastily with their watery blue colour -- of course, what colour did bloodshot go well with? Hell, his own eyes weren't much different.

Which Mandy noticed as she sat down across from him. Firstly, not yet prepared to meet Curt Wild eye to eye save for that brief passing glance, she looked at the tabletop, or more particularly, at Curt's hands. The nailpolish upon his nails was peeling. His knuckles were busted, and he had nicks and cuts all over his hands. One forearm sported a bandage about it, rather sloppily although nevertheless proficiently-enough done, telling that Curt had probably fixed it up himself. She saw the whiteness of another peeking out from under the collar of his T-shirt.

She took a deep breath as she looked up. His eyes were on her, not quite cold, not quite hard, though most definitely both. And so sorrowful, hurt and empty. Mandy had always noticed that Curt's eyes, no matter how vacant, still told a good deal about him. She searched them, seeing if any trace of the Brian they both had loved could be found within them.

Her search was futile. Much like her own, all that could be found was Brian Slade's aftermath, the devastation he had caused.

"I guess you heard about it all," was all Mandy said when she finally decided to speak, not looking Curt in the eye, but instead taking in the cuts and bruises upon his face.

There it was. That was why he hadn't been able to place her voice at first. It was stripped bare -- nothing but her American accent. None of her annoying, feigned English -- though she had slipped in and out of that like Curt with consciousness after a rush. Hell, Curt could sound more consistently British than Mandy without trying.

He downed the rest of his own scotch -- straight, though, whereas Mandy liked hers on the rocks -- and let it burn a path to his stomach before answering.

"Yeah," he said simply. He cleared his throat. His voice sounded like shit, rough and hoarse. Mandy snorted indifference to how he had so simplified the situation. Curt refilled his glass -- he'd bought the bottle and was more than prepared to buy however many more he needed. He tipped the bottle toward Mandy. "More?"

At first she was going to decline. But then it struck her. She herself couldn't pin down what  _it_  was. But she realised what a sad little situation she and Curt were in. She realised that Curt was actually accepting her.

"Top it off," she allowed.

There was silence after that, but the ice had been broken. The song that came on the jukebox five minutes later was the conversation starter. "2HB," sung by Jack Fairy, off the record he had just released -- with Curt, if Mandy wasn't mistaken.

" _Oh, I was moved by your screen dream..."_

"Brian loved this song," she mused aloud before thinking. She sighed, realising she might as well finish her thought. "He never got tired of performing it."

"That was what he was born to do," Curt replied simply. Both of them realised the underlying meaning beneath the statement.

Mandy smiled ruefully, dipping her head in acknowledgement. "That he was."

The next hour and a half was filled with snatches of memories on the rise and fall of the great Brian Slade and Maxwell Demon.

"So," Mandy asked, lighting up a fresh cigarette. "You stayin' around here?"

"Yeah. Rentin' a flat right next door." Curt's eyes suddenly got sharp, mistrustful. "Why?"

It was essentially a rhetorical question. Even a blind man could have read the look in Mandy's eyes.

\------------

She hadn't originally been able to find much of worth in Curt Anthony Wild. He was an on and off junky. The ex-lead singer of a huge American garage band that had since rather faded into obscurity. A total spaz, prone to random, sudden and sometimes violent outbursts. He was pale. He had stolen her husband out from under her. But he had those damnable eyes -- that seemed to her to be his only redeeming quality.

By the next morning, though, she had found some of what Brian must have seen in Curt. He was intense -- as she knew -- but surprisingly considerate. He could be violent -- for that matter so could she -- but he could be touchingly gentle. It was sweet, endearing.

They played rough -- she had bruises, seemingly  _everywhere_ ; he was scratched from top to bottom. He hadn't said a thing when she had cried out for Brian at those highest of moments, but she always saw the sorrow in his eyes. They were both trying to cope with their loss of Brian by trying to invoke the man where he no longer was. Traces might have still lingered, but they were bitter, jagged and hurt.

Curt wouldn't let the tears fall. He wanted to call to Brian, but unlike Mandy, it was impossible for him  _not_  to realise that she was far from Brian. That pain of realisation ripped at the walls of anger he had built round his heart after Brian's betrayal.

He passed out hard finally around six in the morning, after coming in off the balcony from an extended cigarette break. Mandy had observed him from her place on his bed, where she herself was committing suicide slowly.

Moonlight suited Curt, she decided. He looked ethereal bathed in the light from the yellow-white orb. Shadows suited her. She'd always wanted attention, but found she was far better suited to observing from the sidelines.

Stage lights, spotlights and camera flashes had suited Brian.

Curt stumbled back in and fell ungracefully half on and half off the side of the bed. Mandy sat and looked at him for a moment. She reached forward and, struck by sudden impulsive tenderness, pushed Curt's wild fall of hair back from his face.

" _Bri..._ "

The way he moaned the name, so soft and forlorn and grateful all at once, she should have pitied him, just a bit. Instead, a cold core of icy rage -- jealousy -- flared up and she slapped him across the face she had just bared, one of her rings busting his lip, her handprint vivid red against his almost too-fair skin.

And then she got up and walked out.

She would always feel Brian loved Curt more.

Or maybe just that Curt loved Brian more than she had.

* * *

 

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Bitter-Sweet" by Thom Yorke and the Venus in Furs)_


	13. Chapter Twelve: Catch a Falling Star

_\--------i'-l-l---f-i-n-d---s-o-m-e---w-a-y---o-f---c-o-n-n-e-c-t-i-o-n--------_

He stunned him. And it was so simple.

Arthur Stuart had been caught up in the whirlwind that was the Death of Glitter send-up. It was a goodbye to an era that had meant so much to him, that had brought him into himself. But it was going out with as much of a bang of glitters and sparkles as it had come in with.

And then  _he_  had walked in, almost otherworldly with his pale skin and moonbeam blond hair, shining in his silver leather pants and silver-trimmed leopard print opened top.

Like a fantasy, he had come in through a side door, virtually unnoticed. He had stood for a moment, all but posing, as he cast a look round before heading off.

It was Curt Wild.

And in that brief moment, he had entered Arthur's heart, truly.

\----------

Arthur was riveted. Curt Wild in concert was...indescribable. He was so volatile. He was pouring his heart out onstage, every fibre of his being. Arthur's own chest ached with the pain and hurt Curt was projecting. He was amazing.

While he mainly watched Curt, something drew his attention to the side of the stage.

Mandy Slade was standing there, illuminated in the pale, bluish light. She almost looked like a frigid ice-queen at first glance. Half of that was the lighting. Mandy was trying hard not to show her emotions, the almost-expressionless mask making her face hard.

It took a minute before Arthur realised that she wasn't looking at Curt.

He followed her gaze to alight upon a dark man in the very back of the theatre, shadowed, wearing a hat. Arthur thought the hair peeking beneath the hat glimmered electric blue, but he was too far away to take what his eyes saw seriously. He turned his attention back to Curt who was writhing upon the stage as he howled out the last part of his song.

 ----------

He came offstage, his mind a swirling mess. He was sad, he was angry, he was anxious. He was still thrumming from the performance -- the energy still radiated off of him. He had put every last goddamned shred of his soul into that song. He had sung every line from the depths of his tortured heart, pouring out the lyrics in his typical gravelly growl and bark, only this time coloured with anguish.

As he was walking, someone slight grabbed his arm. He barely had time to register that it was Mandy Slade before she threw her arms round his neck, her tears she was trying not to cry dampening his neck.

" _It was beautiful,_ " she cried softly against his hair. He wasn't unpleasantly surprised.

" _Yeah?_ " he asked as she pulled away.

" _Yeah._ "

" _Thanks_ ," he said, mildly surprised. Compliments were rare, especially from her. It was oddly good to see Mandy -- maybe because it raised his hopes a little. He looked at her, unknowing of how expectantly. " _So, did you see, ah...?_ "

It was painful how quickly she dashed his thin hopes. " _No,_ " she sniffed, hugging her arms tight across her chest and shaking her head. She didn't look at him. His heart fell with amazing speed -- and again he wondered why he'd thought to hope.

Figured. It so fucking figured. As he looked away from Mandy in his sudden burst of frustration, his eyes caught those of a boy. The kid had seen the whole exchange. He smiled slightly -- trying to come off as a non-threat -- sympathetic even. He was...there was something about him, past the badly blue-dyed hair. It was the eyes. Innocent, but worldly -- wise, almost even -- and all too keen. Dark hazel.

Curt had hung back behind the stage later on as the grand Death of Glitter concert continued to celebrate the demise of a period of such provocative, revolutionary rock, brooding. Why the hell hadn't Brian shown up? But then again, it was stupid to think that the infamous Brian Slade would have shown up just to see Curt Wild.

He had at least thought, though, that if anything, the concert celebrating the demise of the scene that had made him so great would have gotten his attention, brought his head up from his precious white lines. Though Curt had no room to talk really on that subject.

He sighed, tossing back his hair -- and saw that boy again. He took him in fully this time: Tall, plain, his face rather angular, but still handsome. Tolerably fuckable, at the least. Again, his hair was what caught Curt's attention first, but not what drew him to him. It was sort of shaggy, and brown naturally -- he really needed to stop using whatever spray-on colour he was. And then the surprisingly captivating eyes.

They would meet later on. Up on the roof.

God, he had asked a lot of things, half of which he himself couldn't remember. He doubted the boy remembered any of his unimportant questions. In the end, they'd fucked. They'd lain together till the sun had warmed them. They'd laughed together -- Curt hadn't laughed in so long.

Eventually, Curt would all but completely forget the boy. But he'd always remember that someone -- someone who must have been special -- caught him, long ago. Someone not Brian. Someone brought him back to life, if only for a little while. Someone let him laugh again.

* * *

 

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Ladytron" by Thom Yorke)_


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Into the Shadows

\--------y-o-u-r---c-i-g-a-r-e-t-t-e---t-r-a-c-e-s---a---l-a-d-d-e-r-------

He had sat in the back of the pub as well. Not far from  _him_. He was ever the same. Long bleached blond hair still, swept now back into a ponytail save for the sections that framed that far-too-familiar face. Those eyes.... They were a grey-green at the moment, in the poor light. But still beautiful. He was pale, with a disgruntled air about him. An ever-present loneliness, frustration.

He understood those feelings well himself.

 _Curt Wild._  He missed him. He honestly did. More so than he did Mandy. He had been in love with her when they had met, in the beginning of their marriage, but as she often said, Curt had changed everything. Because he had. He had been like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was amazing, and consuming, and then it had all fell apart and it had been devastating. Curt, unlike Mandy, had just walked out, disappeared. No confrontation, no sudden drop-ins. Just -- gone....

But now he was Brian Slade no longer. He hadn't been for the longest. He was not Maxwell Demon either. He had killed that alter ego. He was someone different again, entirely. He was Tommy Stone. Underneath the makeup, his face was still the same, maybe a bit more aged. His eyes were still the same, maybe a little more haunted. But he had modified his personality as well as his public appearance to go with this new persona. He had even blocked out memories and parts of his soul. But damn Curt.... He stalked Curt as much as he knew Curt was stalking him. The bastard had figured Tommy out. But he still hadn't figured out the face beneath Tommy. And he was grateful for that and hoped Curt never did. It would hurt too much in the end. They couldn't just go back to the way it was before, and they both knew that.

He had narrowed his eyes as he recognised the young man Curt was talking to. Yet one more person who had figured him out. Damn it. It was almost an epidemic. He'd almost certainly have to change himself again -- he could not fall from the light -- after that little bugger printed his damn story. Damned journalists. Fucking parasites, the lot. And damn Shannon. She was almost as bad. If she had let him handle it...he was sure he could have dispelled any notion of a connection between Tommy Stone and Brian Slade. Or could he have?

Curt had recounted the tale of how he had gotten the pin rather vaguely, but nonetheless endearingly. He remembered that holiday quite well. One of the happiest times of his life. " _A man's life is his image._ " His bloody mantra. Albeit one he had always,  _always_  lived by. His entire life he had held true to that simple ideal, and it had gotten him places. All the disasters behind the stage ignored, of course.

Curt offered the shining emerald green oval pin to the boy, who gracefully declined. It did nothing to raise his opinion of the young journalist, though he did take advantage of letting it be a reason to yet again lower his opinion of the boy – which was becoming a harder and harder thing to achieve; on a scale of one to ten, the boy was approaching a negative fifty.

He watched as Curt took advantage of a momentary distraction – the song “2HB” had begun to play on the jukebox, Jack Fairy’s smooth vocals filling the dingy bar. Jack was good, yes. But no one pulled it off like he had.

Curt had slipped the pin down the brown bottle of the boy’s beer...he was paying such close attention to it all he could swear he heard the wet  _plunk!_  as it hit the liquid. The boy had turned back. Curt, with a sad look that was well-masked -- enigmatic -- though Brian could catch the faint hint of it (he had come after a time to be able to tell when Curt was upset, the problem was he could never exactly just by expression tell how deeply): “See you around?”

The boy nodded and smiled, a little awkwardly, and Curt faded back and walked out. He watched him, barely noticing – though finding it faintly amusing when he realised what it was – when he spit his beer as he coughed up the almost-swallowed pin.

But he had no interest in the boy. He looked back at his drink, staring hard, swirling it. He did that for a solid twenty minutes, until the warring voices in his mind reached a crescendo.

_Go._

_No._

_Go on._

_No...._

_Just to end it. To satisfy that curiosity. Just to find some closure. Go._

And so he did, pushing back his chair and heading off in the direction Curt had gone.

* * *

 

_(The lyric in the page break is from "2HB" by Thom Yorke and the Venus in Furs)_


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Drug use, suicide attempt

\-----i---w-a-n-n-a---t-e-a-r---i-t---d-o-w-n----

He knew what it had come to. It was at the end of the show. There wasn't anything past this point. He had gotten rid of his last connection to his past life, giving it to a guy who seemed vaguely special to him, for some odd reason. Kindred hearts? Who the fuck knew. But it was gone – passed to the young journalist in hopes that he may change what it brought to later bearers. For Curt, it had brought an intense, short-lived love. And a heartbreak that just never left him. He could wish a lot of bad shit from his life on a number of people, but he’d never wish the pain his heart felt on anyone…not even Brian.

He had seen Tommy Stone in concert. Far from inspiring that utter  _shit._  He knew it was Brian. It held all the characteristics of him, just slightly tweaked. But it was not  _his_  Brian. It was an ego-tripping-bastard Brian. The one who thought he still owned the world. Maxwell Brian. That damned persona had infused a new facet to Brian, and had forever changed him.

He wanted  _his_  Brian back.

A fucking pipe dream if there ever was, that. He knew that Brian had been lost long ago. First in Maxwell...then who knew what…and now in Tommy Stone. It was quite possible that the Brian Slade he had fallen in love with was irretrievably lost forever.

And with all those ties severed, intentionally or not, that left him now completely void. He had been hanging back to see if Tommy held any of Brian within him. No. And as much as Curt knew he himself was beyond redemption, he still could set himself free. Free from the hurt and the memories and the sorrow. Free from this fucking hell he had existed in, all of his wretched life. Just...free.

He had never stayed clean. That was a well-known fact to anyone who had ever known him for just a while. He couldn’t. He would try...and fail.  _Inadvertently intentionally._  He would inadvertently intentionally get back on it. That was a complex concept, but it was true. He had found the escape it had offered him long ago…and he always preferred it. It was simple, it was pure, it was beautiful. The crystalline…perfection of it just would sweep him away, and wash away his cares. And that was what he wanted.... That was what he  _needed_.

He was falling. Falling faster and faster. And he didn’t want to hit the ground, but he knew he didn’t have the willpower to stop his descent, let alone even control it. So he would fly. Fly right the hell out of it and away.

Away for good.

Grabbing out his gear, he set to his task. He laid his instruments out on the edge of the sink, amongst sparkling shards of glass, ignoring the red smears his bloodied hand made upon the yellowing porcelain. He threw off his jacket, tossing it beneath the sink and quickly undid his belt and cinched it around his arm. He moved on to the most important element.

He had just purchased it today…more than enough to do what he wanted. He couldn’t care less. He just dumped a good amount into his spoonful of water and grabbed his Zippo as it dissolved. He used the bottom corner of his lighter to swirl it round in the water to make sure it all dissolved down to become just a milky white liquid.

He flicked open the lid and struck the light on his Zippo in one fluid, practised move, holding the flame beneath the spoon, waiting for the mixture to bubble. And then he drew it up into the needle -- all of it.

He settled down on the floor, setting the needle aside for just a moment as he tightened the belt more, yanking it with his teeth, and tapped up a vein.

He picked up the syringe, closed his eyes, and plunged it in. The cold metal needle pierced flesh down into vein, and he depressed the syringe, flooding his system. He kept his eyes shut as his mind swirled and whirled.

And then, he didn’t know how much longer, but someone walked in.

* * *

_(The lyric in the page break is from "My Unclean" by Ewan McGregor)_


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Free

\-----a-n-d---t-h-e-n---i-'l-l---l-o-s-e---y-o-u-----

He walked in...and froze. Curt sat in the floor, pale and swaying, a vein in the inside of his elbow spiked and the plunger of the syringe depressed. He knew something was not right. He just did...

" _Don't!_ "

The word had just flown from him.  _What the hell are you thinking, Brian?_  Funny -- he hadn't thought of himself as Brian for awhile. He referred to himself even in thought as "Tommy" now.  _He doesn't bloody know you anymore. You don't know you._

But he had looked up. The syringe was empty save for the red pulled back into it as he pulled the needle from his skin, but Curt had looked up. His bloodshot grey-blue eyes had met with the shadowed stranger's clear blue ones.

" _Bri?_ "

And then his eyes were rolling back, closing. " _No!_ " Brian didn't know he had yelled it outloud, but he had. He ran over to Curt's side. "Curt! Dammit, Curt!"

The eyes fluttered open. They tried to focus on the man above them, but did not quite succeed. "Bri? I always... I hoped you'd be...the angel to take me to hell." His roughened voice, so endearing, was almost a whisper, broken.

"No, Curt. Don't. It is me. It's Brian. Don't go." God damn -- how much did he shoot up with? How much did he bloody take? Obviously more than enough. Curt's lips, already beginning to tinge blue, curved in a soft smile as his eyes rolled back once more. The eyelids that slid slowly down over them were the same almost lifeless shade as his lips. Brian shook him. "No -- Curt!" But the body so familiar to him was limp and heavy in his arms. Just moments before he had been living, breathing, walking about, talking to that damned journalist.

Curt Wild was dead now. And that was it.

The tears welling in his eyes disturbed him. He tried damned hard never to cry. It reminded him of the day after Curt had left, after their fight and the break up...breakdown. His breakdown. Brian looked down upon Curt. He looked so...peaceful. So perfect in that grungy way as always. The black shirt he wore was simple, yet beautiful upon him. Brian slipped his hand around Curt's right one -- it was bloodied; judging by the sparkling shards he lay in, Brian figured Curt had put his fist through the mirror over the sink -- it wasn't the first time Curt had broken something out of intense emotion, but most assuredly it was the last. His brown and yellow leather jacket was wadded beneath the sink. Brian pushed back a fall of yellow-blond hair from Curt's blue-tinted ashen face, the blood from Curt's hand that had gotten upon his own streaking the light hair. The death-pallor wasn't as stark thanks to the lighter hair, Brian mused darkly. It would have been almost unbearably...there...if Curt had gone back to his natural deep brown hair colour. It was wild...Curt had always been pale -- not pasty, just quite fair -- and it looked so wild to see him coloured blue. The red Brian remembered from wild nights, from anger as well. Maybe brown in a tan -- that would have been fine. But he'd never imagined blue...

He bit the inside of his lip as he ran his thumb lightly over the cold lips, which were softly parted. Lips he recalled so fondly. He had missed Mandy's hands and Curt's lips. He pressed a kiss lightly to Curt's forehead and stood, laying his dead love carefully to the floor. And then he backed away. Out the door, leaving Curt there almost exactly as he had fallen, needle beside him on the yellow-tiled floor that glittered with broken glass, red staining the inside of the syringe, his belt still around his arm, blood -- just a drop -- oozing from the point where he had inserted the deadly needle.

And Brian -- no, Tommy, once again -- walked out the door. He pressed himself back into the shadows as the journalist walked by. He didn't cringe at the anguished cry that he heard through the bog's door.

Brian Slade had died with Curt Wild, finally.

And he was Tommy Stone once more. Out to be the next big thing once again.

He walked from the pub quickly out the back door. If Shannon found out he had been down here, she'd flip....

* * *

 

_(The lyric in the page break is from "Ladytron" by Thom Yorke)_


	17. Epilogue: Not So Cruel...but Ironic

\-----i-f---i---c-r-y---m-y---t-e-a-r-s---a-r-e---y-o-u-r-s-----

Arthur Stuart sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair, dark head bowed, slumped forward. Tears he did not want to shed slipped silently down from his closed eyes to trail down his cheeks or make the dizzying drop to the dull tiled floor.

"Bleeding hell, Curt..." he whispered aloud. It had been so cruel...so horrible...

...But the beeping of the machine beside him dispelled any lingering doubts, though...

"I almost lost you --  _again_." He sighed and sat up, looking over at the man in the hospital bed, still too pale, eyes closed softly -- in sleep, much to Arthur's relief -- tubes and machines still hooked up to him, though. It was wild -- that he felt this way. He had shared one night -- just one, so many years ago, but his heart had belonged to Curt Wild ever since. And now. Now Curt... A sad, but genuinely happy smile came to Arthur's lips.

"But I didn't. You came back, again."

Curt Wild was still alive.

Ironically.

* * *

 

  _(The lyric in the page break is from "Diamond Meadows" by T. Rex)_


End file.
